Chapter Fourteen In the Pines
In the Pines
Jake watched Harrison leave, and his gut sank.
The door opened, letting a thin blade of chilly night air slice into the pub before it swung shut behind him again.
Jake had to force himself to move. Back to the stage.
To the kit. And he crouched behind the drums to loosen the wingnuts on the cymbals, focusing on the small, familiar motions instead of the thoughts pushing at the back of his mind.
It was stupid to worry about a grown man.
One at least a decade older than him. And a copper at that.
Maybe CID. More desk than pavement. But Jake reckoned he’d come up through the ranks like the rest of them.
Didn’t they all? Which meant Harrison Black had spent years walking streets that were probably a hell of a lot rougher than Hartswick. London streets.
Still, Jake couldn’t quite shake the sinking feeling.
Though if he was honest, it probably had less to do with Harrison meeting trouble in the dark and more to do with the fact he’d turned down the lift. Which had to be because of the other day.
The blanket.
Jake winced.
That had been a weird move. Coming into the house and draping it over him while he slept on the sofa. Harrison probably thought he was some kind of soft bastard. Then tonight—Still gonna make me worry about you.
Christ.
Jake scrubbed a hand down his face.
Fuck it.
He lifted the first cymbal free from its stand and focused on the job instead of the mess in his head.
Crash. Ride. Hi-hats. Each one carrying the faint vibration of the last song as he slid them into the padded sleeves of his cymbal bag.
Next came the snare. He popped the throw-off, loosened the stand and lifted the drum carefully into its case.
It was easier to take apart a drum kit than it was to figure out why a man like Harrison Black suddenly occupied so much space in his head.
He wasn’t used to it. He was used to quick and easy.
A brief fumble. An aye, you’ll do. Not thinking about someone who was way out of his league.
Someone older, more experienced, and not someone who gave blowies in the backs of vans.
Around him the pub carried on its usual Saturday night. Chairs scraping. Glasses clinking. Someone feeding coins into the fruit machine to fill the silence the band had left behind.
Deacon clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “Good set tonight, mate.”
Jake grunted something that might have been agreement.
Instead of answering properly, he drifted his attention to the front door.
Half expecting it to open again. Half expecting Harrison Black to step back through it.
Which was stupid. The man had left. Still, the image lingered.
The way Harrison had stood at the bar watching him.
The quiet steadiness of his gaze. The way he’d said goodnight as if it meant more than politeness.
“Was that the detective earlier?” Deacon crouched beside him to help lift the floor tom into its case.
“Aye.”
“Any news?”
Jake tightened the clasps on the drum case. “Andy was in here Wednesday.”
Deacon widened his eyes. “Pete wouldn’t have allowed that.”
“No.” Jake glanced across the pub to where Brodie moved between tables collecting empty glasses. “But he might.”
Deacon followed his line of sight. “Said you should’ve left that one alone, didn’t I?” He mimicked a psycho stabbing, adding the eek eek eek. “Lad’s trouble, mate.”
“Aye.” He was starting to see that himself.
After several trips back and forth to the van, he hauled the last of the kit over one shoulder, grabbing the snare case in the other hand, and headed out through the side exit.
Cold air hit him.
The car park behind the pub had been half swallowed by mist rolling down from the moor. The sodium lights above cast dull halos through it, turning everything the colour of a weak brew. Deacon and Raff loaded their cars, waved him off, and drove out of the car park one after the other.
Jake dumped the cymbals into the back of his van and leaned against the open door for a moment. He told himself he was cooling down. Not thinking about Harrison Black walking home alone through the village.
The back door creaked open again.
“Thought you’d buggered off without saying goodbye again.” Brodie sauntered out into the mist, taking a slow pull from his vape before letting the cloud drift between them.
Jake slammed the van door. “Why’d you lie to the detective?”
Brodie stopped. “About what?”
Jake turned to face him in the dark. “Andy Mitchell.”
Brodie exhaled sharply. “Jesus, Jake—”
“Was he here? Did you serve him?”
Brodie glanced towards the pub door, checking that no one else had followed him out. “I didn’t recognise him.”
“But you know who he is to me.”
“Do I?” Brodie folded his arms. “Jake, you never talk to me. I know things about you from other people. You’re happy bending me over in there—” He flapped a hand at the van, then stepped closer, “—but I don’t get access to whatever’s going on up here.
” He reached out, sliding his thumb along Jake’s temple.
Jake jerked his head away. “You lied to Harrison.”
“Harrison?”
“The detective.”
Brodie scoffed. “No, I didn’t.” He shrugged. “I serve a lot of people, Jake. Faces blur.”
“You should remember the man I went inside for.”
“I didn’t even know you then, did I?” Brodie shot back. “And you’ve never really told me about that time in your life. I can listen, y’know? There’s more to me than just a warm mouth for you.”
“I don’t get why you’d lie to him.”
“It wasn’t a lie. He said a name; I didn’t remember it. Then he showed me a picture, I didn’t recognise it. Obviously, I do now.”
“So you’ll let Harrison know?”
Brodie huffed, his breath clouding between them. “Are you pissed off because I couldn’t remember the bloke’s name, or because I were no use to your precious new detective?”
Jake scoffed. “Fuck you, Brodie.”
“Okay.” Brodie stepped straight into his path.
Jake stopped. “Move.”
Brodie moved. Except closer, not away.
And he slid his hand beneath Jake’s hair, gripping the back of his neck, settling his fingers there with far too much familiarity. “Come on, Jake.”
Jake knew that voice.
He’d heard it at two in the morning after lock-in. In the back of the van. Up the stairs in Brodie’s flat with Brodie’s mouth already on his neck, hand probably on his cock, and both of them knowing exactly where the night was going.
Apparently Brodie thought it might work again.
“You’ve got all this shit kicking off.” His voice dropped, soft and concerned, while he stroked his thumb up the side of Jake’s neck. “Another girl missing. Same place. Gotta be bringing everything back about Robyn, aye?”
There it was.
Concern wrapped around an invitation.
“You don’t have to deal with it on your own.” Brodie stepped closer until there was barely any space left between them. “I can come back with you. We can talk. Or not talk.” He tipped his mouth into a smile. “Whatever you need.”
Jake stared at him.
Subtle as a fucking brick.
And once upon a time, he’d have said yes. Not to the talking. Never the talking. But Brodie was fit, available and knew exactly what Jake liked. There’d been plenty of nights when that had been reason enough.
It wasn’t anymore.
Hadn’t been for a while.
Jake caught Brodie by the wrist and pulled his hand away from his neck. “No.”
Brodie’s smile faded. “I’m trying to be there for you.”
“You’re trying to get me back into your bed.”
“Can’t I be doing both?”
At least that was honest.
Jake almost laughed. Instead, he put a hand on Brodie’s chest and moved him firmly out of the way. “If this were ever gonna be owt more than a shag, it would’ve happened by now.”
Brodie folded his arms. “It hasn’t happened because you don’t fucking let me in.”
“Exactly.”
Brodie frowned.
Jake sighed. “That’s what I’m telling you. I don’t want to let you in.”
That landed.
For the first time, some of the fight went out of Brodie’s face. Jake felt like a bastard for it, but better that than letting Brodie keep convincing himself there was a chance here.
They’d fucked. More than once. It’d been good.
That was all it had ever been.
And for reasons Jake really didn’t want to examine too closely, the idea of doing it again suddenly held even less appeal than it had yesterday.
Brodie went to say something else, but Pete popped his head out of the door and hollered out to him, “Brode, mate, got a lot of clearing up in here.”
Brodie took a vape, blew it out. “Be there in a sec.” Then he turned back to Jake. “Hang around. I’ll come home with you.”
“You’ve never come home with me.”
“Another thing we need to change.”
“Go back inside, Brodie.”
Brodie studied him a moment longer before taking another pull on the vape. “This will only get worse for you. You’re gonna need people.”
“I have people.”
“Not for everything.”
Jesus. Brodie didn’t know when to stop.
“I’m here for you, Jake. Whenever you need.”
“Aye.” Jake attempted the humouring tactic. “Maybe don’t wait up.”
Brodie sighed, then spun and sauntered off back into the pub.
Jake huffed out a breath. Yeah, there were definite side effects to casual hookups.
He’d had enough bad Grindr encounters to know that by now.
Nothing dangerous, but there had been a few awkward endings and the occasional bloke who didn’t quite understand the word casual.
Brodie had been clingy from day one. Deacon had clocked it early; in the same way he spotted the warning signs in overzealous fans after gigs.
Still, for a while there, Brodie had been something.
Jake sighed and rounded the van, reaching for the driver’s door.
Then he stopped. Across the car park, beyond the row of darkened shopfronts, the High Street stretched away under pools of yellow streetlight, and at the far end lay the path. The one Emily Fisher had taken Wednesday night.
The same path Robyn had walked thirteen years ago.
Jake felt the familiar pull in his gut.
That tight knot of need to know.